The Vengeful Inspector
by bemj11
Summary: A man is dead, killed in front of a room full of witnesses, and the murderer is still there when Inspector Bradstreet arrives on the scene. The problem? Inspector Hopkins swears he didn't kill the man.
1. Chapter 1

_**Stanley Hopkins**_

I stared at the body before me. Part of me noted the shocked expressions the Constables wore. A very small part of me wondered what had really killed the man. The largest part of my brain was screaming that this would be considered murder, and that my chances of convincing someone that I hadn't actually killed the man when everything pointed in the opposite direction were nil.

_Run!_ My mind was screaming. _They have witnesses. They watched you approach a man who was alive and well. They saw you shove him, saw him stagger backwards, saw him fall. They can see that he's dead now. _

I tried to figure out what to do. The Constables were on edge. They all knew that I had a history with the dead man, and that it had not been pleasant.

Bradstreet was pushing forward through the crowd. "Hopkins!" He called.

I turned to gauge his expression as he caught sight of the body. _Where had that knife come from anyway?_

Bradstreet paled as the body attracted his notice. He didn't ask any questions. "Go home." He said. "You're relieved. I'll take over here."

"Bradstreet, I-"

"We'll deal with that when it comes time." He assured me in a low voice. He knew I wasn't the type to run. I nodded, and turned and walked through the uneasy group of Constables.

"Stop by and tell Lestrade I won't be able to meet him for a drink, will you?" He called. Again, I nodded. I couldn't think of a thing to say.

_**Roger Bradstreet**_

I swore under my breath. There was no way the lad would have done something like this. Shoved the fellow, as the Constables claimed, yes. He had taken umbrage against the dead man, and for good reason, and even the best of us could get a little rough now and then.

But murder? It wasn't possible.

The problem was, precious few would believe that, with Hopkins' grudge and a room full of eyewitnesses. Lestrade probably would, and Gregson, but the rest of the Yard-

The lad was in serious trouble.

I watched as the Constables secured the crime scene, and thought about calling in Sherlock Holmes. Then I reconsidered. Lestrade or Gregson could have that dubious honor, whenever they decided to get involved.

And there was no doubt they would. Lestrade wouldn't be able to believe it, and Gregson wouldn't want to. They would do their best to prove the lad innocent.

But I wondered what chance they had, when everything I saw and heard insisted that my own belief in the lad's innocence had to be wrong.

_**Stanley Hopkins**_

I found the Inspector in a corner. He had seen me come in, and was waiting for me. I swallowed nervously and made my way over to him.

"Aren't you on duty tonight?" He asked. I thought I caught a note of weariness in his tone. He probably thought I was here to call him in on something.

"Inspector Bradstreet asked me to inform you he wouldn't be able to make it tonight." I informed him. Bradstreet was an odd choice in a drinking partner, I reflected, especially for someone like Lestrade, who preferred to drink in silence.

A large portion of my mind was still trying to panic. I tried to focus on reasons that Bradstreet and Lestrade might choose to drink together.

"He relieved you, then?" Lestrade asked. Bradstreet was an amiable sort of drunk, until you hit him. Then he'd tear you apart. Lestrade-

I couldn't recall ever seeing Lestrade drunk. At least not to the point that it impaired his behavior. "Yes, sir." I replied.

Lestrade signaled for something stronger than what he was currently drinking. "Something happen with Lewis?" He guessed.

My mind again tried to convince me to run for it. I nodded in answer to his question. "I may be in trouble." I admitted. Best to make a clean breast of it.

"How much trouble?" Lestrade asked sharply. I gulped, and was puzzled as he drained the rest of whatever he had been drinking when I came in and started on the new drink.

"A lot." I managed to say. Lestrade refused to listen to anything more until he had finished his second drink. I noted absently that it smelled rather stronger than even that vile stuff Jones preferred, and I knew _that_ was fully capable of knocking most of the Yarders off their feet before they even finished the first glass. There were things a Yarder avoided: interrupting Holmes, getting between Gregson and Lestrade when they were going at it, and Jones' alcohol of choice.

He signaled for another drink and leaned back in his chair. His eyes were slightly unfocused as he studied me. "What happened?" He asked.

This time I recognized what he was drinking when it was set down on the table, and shuddered. Not even Jones would touch that stuff. It was guaranteed to set the room spinning in record time, and nobody was ever sure what they had been doing the night before if a glass of that stuff was involved.

I took a deep breath, brushing aside the question of why Lestrade was drinking something like that. "I went to question Lewis." I said, trying to sound calm. It wasn't working. "He recognized me. We swapped insults." I swallowed. "I shoved him."

Lestrade frowned, but didn't comment. He had known of our history before I had been assigned to go talk to the man. "He staggered, and fell." Both eyebrows went up, and Lestrade was rapidly emptying his glass once more. "He was dead when he hit the ground." I swallowed again. "He had a knife in his chest."

Lestrade looked confused. It was a look he usually reserved for his dealings with Holmes, and then only rarely. "I take it from your delivery that you didn't put the knife there." He finally said.

He was signaling for another drink.

"I don't know how it got there!" I sounded like a child insisting his innocence while being caught in the act of sneaking into the dessert.

Lestrade swore. I wondered if it were the alcohol or the situation that allowed that particular phrase to slip through.

"Someone's set you up." He decided. The alcohol was getting to him. Lestrade never came to conclusions this quickly, or at least never expressed such suspicions so soon. He always waited until he had some sort of evidence before uttering a word. "Someone wants you out of the way."

"But how?" I demanded weakly. "How could they set that up-?"

"Kent is nice this time of year." Lestrade interrupted speculatively. "Very nice. I have family out there, you know. A sister."

The alcohol was definitely getting to him. "Sir-" I tried to recall him to the issue at hand. He waved me off.

"Kristina, that's my older sister. Smart girl, made me look downright daft growing up. Would've been unbearable if not for how kind she was. Hated the city, though. But she met that Joey Walker fellow, and they married and moved out to Kent." Lestrade rambled. His words were starting to slur a bit. "Never met a stranger, those two. Never turned away anyone in need. They're always glad to be able to help someone."

Lestrade stood unsteadily, having finished his last glass, and I watched with some alarm as he swayed and closed his eyes for a few seconds. I wondered if not being able to see the room made him any steadier on his feet.

"I should be getting home." He informed me pleasantly. "The wife'll have a fit if I pass out before I get there."

I wondered if I should make sure he made it. I also wondered why the man seemed to have deliberately gotten this drunk. "Can I walk you home, Inspector?" I asked. Lestrade smiled and shook his head.

"I'll be fine." He assured me. "You should be getting on yourself, lad." He gave me a stern, if slightly unfocused, look. "Don't linger here. Not tonight." That said, he turned and made his way to the door, his footsteps surprisingly sure. _Not_ surprising was the fact that although more than a few people looked up to watch him leave, no one in the building decided the drunken Inspector would make an easy target in the dark.

I shook my head and followed the Inspector's lead.

_Where now_? Part of me was still trying to panic. _A room full of witnesses, a dead man, you'll be arrested and charged with murder for sure, Stanley._

I turned towards home and made it about a block before I stopped.

_Kent is nice this time of year_, Lestrade had said. Why would he say such a thing? Lestrade, even drunk, did not discuss the weather. Or his family, for that matter. I frowned and continued walking.

_I have family out there._ Kristina and Joey Walker. _Never turned away anyone in need._

My jaw dropped.

Lestrade was telling me to run.

_**Elisabeth Lestrade:**_

I didn't bother asking my husband why he had come home drunk enough to trip on the hall floor and be forced to lay there, sprawled in a heap, unable to remember how to get up. It wouldn't have done any good.

I would, however, be certain to ask him tomorrow evening, after he had begun his return to the land of the living.

I helped the poor lout up off the floor and proceeded to help him out of his coat, jacket, and shoes. This accomplished, I began to propel him up the stairs, thankful that he wasn't a large man and was therefore not very difficult to manipulate.

He noticed me at the top of the stairs, and turned and kissed me on the cheek. I nearly staggered myself as I caught a whiff of his breath.

There would be no sense in asking him why he was so drunk or what had happened tonight, then. He wouldn't remember either.

"Hello, love." He finally murmured as I put him to bed.

"You're drunk." I scolded him with a smile. My husband only ended up this drunk when he was acting with his conscious as his guide and didn't want to be able to be held accountable when it clashed with his duty later, something I had seen happen perhaps a handful of times in the years that we'd been married. His reasoning was that if he couldn't remember what he'd done, they couldn't fault him for it, I supposed.

Or at least he wouldn't have to feel guilty for going against the law.

"Of course I am." He informed me indignantly, after he had worked out what I had said. "You would be to, if you had been drinking that stuff in my place."

"Time for bed, dear." I told the man fondly.

"'Kay." He agreed obligingly. He was sound asleep in less than a minute.

_**Tobias Gregson:**_

"I always hate coming here on business." Bradstreet admitted. "She gets that look in her eye, just for a second, like she's going to shred you into little tiny pieces. Then she's cheerful and friendly and perfectly accepting of the fact that you're taking her husband away from her when he's not supposed to be on duty."

I knew exactly what the man meant. Elisabeth Lestrade was friendly, supportive of her husband's job, and had a way about her that suggested that she could very easily 'shred you into little tiny pieces' if she so chose.

I knocked on the door, and we were promptly shown in and led to the kitchen by the maid.

It always struck me as odd that Lestrade would have a maid. He simply didn't seem to be the type that would have any use for one, or to be able to afford one.

Mrs. Lestrade was in the kitchen, preparing breakfast. I wrinkled my nose as I caught a whiff of something that might once have been coffee.

"Is-" The woman placed a finger to her lips, and Bradstreet quieted. "Is the Inspector up?"

"Not yet." Mrs. Lestrade murmured so softly I almost didn't hear her. "He's off today, Inspectors." She reminded us.

"I didn't think your husband slept in." I nearly forgot to be quiet, and her eyebrows went up in warning.

"He had a little too much to drink last night." She said briskly. "It's a wonder he made it home." Bradstreet received a pointed glance.

"I was on duty." Bradstreet explained guiltily. "But I can't say as I've ever seen the man in need of assistance in getting home."

Mrs. Lestrade's expression softened. "Can you wait for him to be up? You can have some breakfast while you wait."

I was tempted. The woman had to be an excellent cook if Lestrade preferred her meals over his own cooking. That pot of 'coffee' had me worried, though.

"We need to speak with him as soon as possible." I said reluctantly.

Mrs. Lestrade grimaced. "You'll still have time for breakfast. Just make sure the children leave some toast for their father." She left us seated at the table across from each other, the table set and the morning meal steaming.

A moment later a boy stumbled sleepily in, shortly followed by two girls. The boy made sure his sisters were seated and had food on their plates, then tended to his own.

"If you don't take something, she'll just make you have some food when she comes back." Jackie, the oldest, had noticed our still empty plates. "Da won't eat anything more than toast anyway, if he's not already up."

Bradstreet didn't need to be told twice. "Your mother said to save him some, by the way." He informed the child as he saw to his plate.

Lestrade arrived a few minutes later, supported for the most part by his wife, who steered him to the table and an empty chair. He looked absolutely awful, and his head sank to rest on the table after he had managed to take his seat.

"Inspec-" Bradstreet broke off abruptly as Lestrade flinched and let out a low moan. I realized then that the children had suddenly become very quiet.

His wife set a cup of that foul smelling coffee down on the table beside him. He raised his head to stare at it blearily, then dragged himself up to huddle miserably in his chair. I was impressed as he downed the contents of his cup without so much as a grimace. I was horrified when his wife refilled it.

"I hope it was worth it." Mrs. Lestrade said softly.

"Me too." He drawled with as much fervor as he could manage, which was almost none, and reached again for his cup.

Bradstreet was watching in horrified fascination. So was I, for that matter.

Lestrade drained the second cup, and managed a groan. This time his wife merely placed a piece of toast on his plate.

Lestrade shuddered, but dutifully started on the toast.

"What?" This was directed at me. Lestrade was apparently in no condition to be polite today.

I didn't waste time with formalities. "Lewis is dead."

Lestrade nearly choked on his toast. "What? How?"

"A room full of Constables say they saw Hopkins kill him." I replied.

Lestrade shot a pleading glance at his wife. "I didn't drink that much last night-"

His wife almost laughed. "You heard him right." She assured her husband. Lestrade sighed and turned his attention back to me.

"Worse, Hopkins has gone missing." Bradstreet put in. "Superintendent wants a search out for him."

Lestrade was slower than usual this morning. It was interesting to watch him consider that statement for far too long before asking, "Who's in charge?"

Bradstreet gave him a funny look. I was too busy trying not to laugh to answer. "You are." Bradstreet finally told him.

"Oh." Lestrade went back to choking down his toast. He finished the first piece, and was promptly rewarded with a second. Bradstreet and I waited while he worked his way through that second piece of toast.

_Click_.

Lestrade froze. Then his eyes darted up to search mine. "What?" He demanded, his voice no louder than the almost whisper it had been this whole time.

"He wants Holmes called in too." I said cheerfully.

Lestrade glared at me.

_**John Watson**_

Inspectors Lestrade, Gregson, and Bradstreet met us at the crime scene. Gregson and Bradstreet looked somber, and rightly so, if what we had been told was correct. Lestrade-

Lestrade looked absolutely miserable, and as if he were in considerable pain, as he waved us over.

"We had to move the body." Bradstreet informed Holmes apologetically, his voice strangely low. "It's down at the Yard. You're welcome to come down and see it."

"And the reports." Gregson added wearily, his voice strangely soft as well. "I cannot believe it." He added.

"They had a history." Holmes reminded the man, and his voice sounded loud after hearing the other two. Lestrade flinched. "There's more than enough for a motive there, Gregson." Gregson scowled at this, and Bradstreet sighed.

"I didn't think he'd run." The latter muttered. Gregson slumped. They were still keeping their voices down, and I was beginning to wonder why.

"Nobody would've thought it of him, Bradstreet. It was an honest mistake. Nobody's blaming you." Gregson tried to reassure the other Inspector.

Holmes had had enough talk. He headed for the front door. Gregson and Bradstreet were quick to follow.

Lestrade looked as if he were considering it. His normally sharp eyes followed the three men dully. I hesitated.

"Inspector?"

Again Lestrade flinched, and his attention was immediately on me. "Yes, Doctor?" He looked almost relieved at the delay, and I noticed his voice was also hushed.

I lowered my own voice. "I understand that Inspector Hopkins was witnessed committing murder, but I confess I don't understand why anyone thinks he would do such a thing."

Lestrade sighed wearily. "Hopkins had a sister." He explained. "She received Lewis' attentions for a while, but it turned out he was just trying to keep an eye on the doings of the Yard. We nearly caught him back then, but she happened to be with him at the time, and he used her as a hostage."

I was horrified. "The fiend! Did he-?"

Lestrade flinched yet again at my outburst. "He let her go, but took a knife to her face for the trouble. She was left broken hearted and scarred. Didn't even know that her gentle 'Leroy Fitzhugh' was the same Lewis we'd been hunting."

I struggled for something to say. "I can see why they said he had the motive to do it." I finally managed.

Lestrade uttered something unintelligible, and turned to look at the building our comrades had already entered. "They'll be missing us." He said, though he didn't sound much like he cared.

"Er-" Again I was hesitant. "Are you all right, Lestrade?"

He winced again. "Fine." He said with a groan. "Just fine." He started off towards the building, and after a moment, I followed.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and the boys do not belong to me.


	2. Chapter 2

**_Stanley Hopkins_**

I hesitated and wondered for what was possibly the fiftieth time if this were a good idea. I wondered if I had misunderstood Lestrade completely. I wondered if I were just being stupid.

I forced myself to knock on the door, telling myself it was too late to go back.

It was opened a moment later by a small, graceful woman. Familiar dark eyes took in the sight of me, from my hat to my shoes. The woman smiled in a friendly, welcoming way that I had never seen her brother emulate, nor could I imagine it. When Inspector Lestrade smiled with that much energy it usually meant serious problems for whoever it was directed at.

"May I help you?" She asked.

I paused, trying to collect my wits. "Kristina Walker?" I asked nervously.

"That would be me." She confirmed with a gentle laugh. "And no need to be so nervous. You're a friend of Giles', are you?

I coughed. _Friend?_ "I work with him in the Yard, Mrs. Walker." I explained quickly.

"Of course." Lestrade's sister smiled fondly. "The man doesn't really have 'friends,' does he? Just acquaintances and people he doesn't mind being around." She shook her head. "I've never met anyone who had so much trouble getting close to people. His wife, of course, is the exception. I have no idea how _that_ happened. Still…" Her gaze resettled on me. "Come in. You're just in time for lunch."

I followed the woman inside and was led to a table set with milk, and sandwiches, and sliced apples. "Go ahead." She offered me a seat. "You look hungry."

When I hesitated, the woman laughed again. "Joey'll be in soon enough, and wouldn't want anyone waiting on him."

Thus encouraged, I started on a sandwich. I had to admit that I was rather hungry. Mrs. Walker poured me a glass of milk and found her own seat.

"How is little brother doing, by the way?" She asked as she poured her own glass, and I nearly choked on my sandwich.

The woman regarded me with a solemn expression that was clearly put on. "He hasn't managed to nearly kill himself again, has he?"

"He was injury free when I left him." I managed to answer her with a straight face. I was strangely at ease sitting here joking about Lestrade with his sister. But then, the entire situation seemed just a little unreal anyway.

The front door opened, and someone called from the other room. "Another guest? Who sent this one our way?" The tone was jesting and cheerful.

"Dear Giles sent this one, Joey." The Mrs. called back to her husband.

"Giles? I didn't think he had any friends." The tall, well built man strode into the room with a chuckle.

"That's not nice, dear." Lestrade's sister scolded tolerantly. "It's not the poor boy's fault if he has trouble getting close to people."

"Yes, I know." Joey replied good-naturedly as he took his place at the table and selected a sandwich. "Too many neighbor children took advantage of his small size when he was little." The man scoffed. "I still say he had to be daft not to know to stay clear of them after that time they shoved him in a coffin."

"I told you he was dropped on his head as a child." I watched in fascination as the two bickered good-naturedly over the meal.

Joey caught me watching. "It's the Lestrade blood, Stanley." He leaned towards me conspiratorially. "Makes them quarrelsome just for the fun of it." His wife smacked him in the back of the head.

"Quarrelsome." She scoffed.

Lestrade certainly had interesting family. I wondered idly if these two showed more restraint when outside of their own home, or if they were like this in public as well.

After lunch I was whisked off on a tour of the house, and was surprised to find that I had already been accepted as a long-term guest when Mrs. Walker pointed out the room in which I would be staying.

I gaped at the woman, much to her amusement. "Stay as long as you need to, Stanley." The familiarity no longer made me uneasy. Lestrade was right in that his sister and her husband had never met a stranger.

The large creature that also inhabited the house was another matter. Kristina called it a dog; it looked more like a wolf than a dog to me, and frightened me half out of my wits when it came out of one of the other bedrooms.

"Don't mind Mercy." Kristina assured me brightly. "Unless you're looking for trouble here, you won't find any with him."

I eyed the beast warily. "Why do you call him Mercy?" To my mind Killer seemed more appropriate.

Kristina laughed. "Because that was the first thing out of Giles' mouth when he first saw it." She replied. "Mercy's taken a liking to him, but my poor brother is terrified of him."

I was torn. I wouldn't have thought there was much that could terrify Lestrade, but if this creature were it, I couldn't really blame him.

"Stanley's going to be visiting for a while." She informed the massive creature. "Keep him out of trouble."

Mercy nosed against my hand, wanting me to pet him.

**_Tobias Gregson_**

"Hopkins did not murder Lewis." I insisted.

Lestrade didn't look up. "All evidence shows that he did."

"Hopkins wouldn't kill someone." I wanted to pick the little runt up by his shoulders and give him a good shaking.

"Even Mr. Holmes was unable to determine otherwise." The infuriating reply was delivered calmly.

"And anyway, he wouldn't have done it in front of a room full of witnesses." I added.

"Has anybody seen anything of him yet?" Lestrade asked.

"Aren't you in charge of that?" I asked, annoyed. "But no, not since last night, when he took you that message. Are you sure he didn't say anything to you?"

Lestrade scowled. "I remember him telling me Bradstreet couldn't make it. Anything after that is a complete blank. I could have spoken to the Queen herself for all I know."

"Found a witness, said you started babbling about your family." I offered.

Lestrade winced. "I must have been completely sauced."

"That's what I said." I frowned. "But why would he run, if he were innocent, and where-" I stopped. _Of course._ "Lestrade, if Hopkins didn't do it, then somebody set him up! That means someone was out to get him." Lestrade considered this.

"Then he'd have to worry about the Yard _and_ whoever set him up if he stayed here." He said. "He'd be better off getting out while we worked on trying to clear him."

"But where could he go?" I demanded. "The boy doesn't have anywhere to go outside London."

"Never mind that." Lestrade said firmly. "We need to worry about finding who set him up."

**_Giles Lestrade_**

I breathed a sigh of relief when Gregson finally vacated my office, and allowed my head to rest on top of my desk. I still had a pounding headache from last night.

_Just where _had_ Hopkins-_

I stopped the thought. If I let myself think about it I might figure out why I had purposely gotten drunk enough not to be able to remember what had happened the night before.

I tried to think about who would have framed Hopkins instead.

It was hard not to think about last night when people kept asking about it. Gregson, Bradstreet, Sherlock, even the Superintendent had insisted on questioning me about what had gone on last night.

It had done nothing to improve my headache. I let myself dwell on the throbbing pain and how much I was looking forward to going home and sleeping it off tonight.

I was supposed to be off today. Lizzie had managed to get rid of the kids for the afternoon. Now she was stuck home alone, the poor woman, though she would undoubtedly make the most of it. I shuddered at the implications of _that_.

Indulging in self pity could be distracting. No wonder I didn't allow myself to do it very often. I sulked for a bit longer before turning my attention to the ever present stack of paperwork resting beside my head.

**_John Watson_**

"Holmes, surely you don't believe that Inspector Hopkins murdered this Lewis fellow." I finally said it.

Holmes looked up at me, surprised. "I suspect that either Hopkins committed the murder or that someone went through a considerable amount of trouble to make it look like he did."

"You mean someone might have framed him." I said. Holmes nodded absently.

"Gregson seems to think as much, and Bradstreet." He commented.

"Lestrade still got a warrant to search his apartment." I pointed out darkly.

"Lestrade has been placed in charge of finding Hopkins. If the man is in London, it is Lestrade's duty to find him."

I scowled. "If Hopkins is in London, Lestrade _will_ find him." I paused. "Let us hope he is not in London."

**_Elisabeth Lestrade_**

I didn't ask my husband how his day had gone. I didn't need to. The look on his face as he dragged himself through the door spoke volumes. He paused to hang his coat and hat and change his shoes before heading for the washroom.

He reappeared to sink into the couch with a soft moan. His head was still bothering him. I settled beside him on the couch, and a moment later felt his arm slip around my waist.

"Where are the children?" He asked suspiciously. He had noticed the quiet.

"Bed." I informed him smugly. "They came back completely exhausted. You should have seen them begging to be allowed to go to bed before supper." He smiled and closed his eyes.

We sat there in silence for a while, just enjoying each other's presence. Eventually, Giles roused himself. "It's not really fair to you, love." He mumbled thickly.

"Hmmm…" I agreed. "You can make it up to me later." I offered generously. I had come to terms with the fact that I would always be second to the Yard. "In the meantime, I have some stew on the stove."

"Mmmm." Giles murmured appreciatively. "That's why I married you, you know. Because I never could make a decent stew."

"I still think that head wound was worse than you let on." I told him. "Nobody believes that it could have happened that fast. You don't just meet someone, talk to them for a few hours, and then propose to them."

He shrugged. "My brain was screaming that I would be miserable for the rest of my life if I didn't act immediately."

"Good instincts." I approved. He started to laugh, but was too tired to actually commit to the action. "I'll get you some stew," I said, standing, "and then we can go to bed."

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and the boys do not belong to me.


	3. Chapter 3

**_Stanley Hopkins_**

I hesitated at the breakfast table as Kristina saw her husband out the door and returned to clear the table. The woman took one look at me and sat down.

"Well?" She said.

I took a deep breath. Then I told her about the incident with Lewis.

She didn't bat an eye.

I related my meeting with Lestrade. I mentioned the alcohol, his rambling, and his departure.

The woman wasn't surprised in the least.

I asked if she thought I had misunderstood Lestrade's intentions.

Kristina laughed at me.

"You did the right thing." She finally said. "It sounds like he suspected trouble and wanted you clear of it. If he mentioned us, and that we were always glad to help others, I don't have the slightest doubt that he meant for you to come here." She considered for a moment, and the expression on her face was so familiar it sent a shiver down my spine. "As to him getting slobbering drunk, it sounds like he doesn't want to have to lie when someone asks if he knows where you are."

Her gaze drifted to the huge animal that had taken to following me around. "I just hope trouble doesn't decide to follow you." She said, and I realized that when she had told Mercy to keep me out of trouble, he had taken it as an order. That was just what he was doing as he followed me around.

Kristina shooed me out of the kitchen then, and I retreated to the library, Mercy padding softly behind me. The Walkers had a large collection of books, and Kristina had already assured me that I was more than welcome to them.

"We nearly lost Giles in there the last time they visited." She had joked. I was still getting used to hearing her and her husband joke about the Inspector as if he were just another human being. Maybe he _was_, but I hadn't been around him long enough to be completely convinced of that fact. It was like suggesting that Holmes, or Doctor Watson, or Inspector Gregson were just men. "Elisabeth had to threaten that he could sleep with the books that night before he actually came out." She had added, and I had felt my face grow hot.

I settled down with a book and decided it would be very easy to get lost in this room after all.

**_Giles Lestrade_**

Hopkins' sister eyed me with distaste. "What makes you think I would tell you if I _were_ hiding him?" She demanded. I reminded myself that I was, after a fashion, the bad guy here.

"I am only doing my duty, Miss Hopkins." I informed the woman. She had been beautiful, once, before the scars. She still was, or would have been, could people manage to see past them. Most, unfortunately, could not.

"He deserved it. My brother should have killed him." She informed me. "But he wouldn't have done it. You know that, or you would, if you knew the man at all."

I didn't deny that. "There were witnesses." I said instead. "Even if your brother was set up, we need him for questioning."

She latched on to that quickly. "Set up? Do you think someone was trying to make it look like he did it?"

"I don't know." I admitted. "But if your brother is here, be aware that you are harboring a fugitive of the law."

She frowned at me. "He isn't. I haven't seen him." She sniffed. "You're welcome to search the place, if it will get Scotland Yard off my back."

I hesitated. "Go on, I'm not going to throw a fit because you didn't have a search warrant or anything." The woman said sharply.

**_John Watson_**

"Lestrade and I were talking." Gregson began casually, and I braced myself. Gregson and Lestrade did not just talk. I didn't doubt that it had something to do with this business with Hopkins, or that they had found some insight on the matter.

"Oh?" Holmes replied. He was staring into the fire, thinking.

"I think someone set Hopkins up." He announced. Holmes spared him an irritated glance.

"_That_ much has been obvious from the start." He said icily. "You, and Lestrade, and Bradstreet, for that matter, all seem convinced that the man didn't do it."

Gregson simply nodded. "Hopkins wouldn't kill someone, not for revenge." He insisted. "And even if he did, he wouldn't be so stupid about it." He paused. "But if he didn't kill Lewis, someone else did. I think someone's trying to set Hopkins up, get him out of the way."

"Why?" Holmes wanted to know. Gregson floundered.

"I don't know." He admitted. "That's the problem. But even Lestrade conceded that the idea is possible."

"Lestrade is as eager as you are to find Hopkins innocent." Holmes retorted sharply.

"And it doesn't make a bit of difference to you, does it?" Gregson replied. "All the evidence suggests that he did it, so he must have, and that's all there is to it. Do you actually care about any of the men you work with down at the Yard?"

"I do not allow emotionalism to cloud my judgment." Holmes snapped.

Gregson relented. "Well, anyway, it was just something to consider." He mumbled, standing to go. "Sorry to bother you."

The Inspector retreated somewhat irritably, and Holmes went back to glaring at the fire as his fingers tapped restlessly on his chair. He was agitated; had been all day. Suddenly I realized why.

He didn't think Hopkins had done it either.

Holmes abruptly pulled himself together and fairly launched himself out of his seat. He went to his files, and seeing my puzzled expression, explained. "We need to learn more about this man Lewis." I nodded, wondering how much information Holmes would have on the man in his own books. With Gregson angry, I wasn't sure I looked forward to the idea of visiting Scotland Yard and asking to see their files on the man.

**_Roger Bradstreet_**

Organized crime. A gang involved in burglaries ranging from jewelry heists to common muggings, and our potential witness was dead, allegedly at the hand of Inspector Hopkins.

Not that I believed that for a minute. I simply couldn't.

Not that it made any difference. I retraced our steps, back past Lewis, looking for another hint, another lead. Surely there had to be something-

It was a gang, we knew that. Large enough and skilled enough not to have been caught once so far, save for the boy, and we hadn't actually found anything on his person. No evidence, no proof, we had been forced to let the lad go.

Lewis had been involved, and wanted out. He had been willing to answer our questions in exchange for a complete relocation to somewhere outside of London. A new name, a new city, everything.

And now he was dead, possibly killed to keep him silent. Someone had known he was going to talk; someone had known he was going to run.

The problem was, I was no closer to finding any answers than I had been before we had found Lewis. If anything, I was even more confused.

**_Tobias Gregson_**

Something about all this was bothering me. Actually, a lot of it was bothering me, but something in particular about Lewis' death jangled an alarm in the back of my head. Something wasn't right.

I went over the reports of the incident; I gained nothing but a sense of hopelessness. Stabbed in a room full of witnesses, Constables, no less, and every one of them said they had seen Hopkins assault the man. Perhaps I was a fool for insisting he was innocent.

I went through the files, and the evidence gathered from the room and the victim. I stopped, and looked through everything related to the case, quickly at first, then more thoroughly. I checked again just to be sure, but there was no denying it.

Something was missing.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and the boys do not belong to me.


	4. Chapter 4

**_Stanley Hopkins_**

I wasn't ready for company to show up, and nearly flew into a panic. Kristina and her husband didn't so much as bat an eye.

Their neighbors were welcomed in with warmth and enthusiasm, as if it were perfectly normal for people to drop in unannounced. Come to think of it, maybe it was normal here. The Walkers had not been the slightest bit surprised to find _me_ on their porch, after all.

I hung back, and tried to stay out of the way, until one of them noticed me.

"Oh!" Kristina laughed easily. "I am so sorry, Amanda. I'd almost completely forgotten! Here, let me introduce you. Stanley, these are neighbors of ours, Amanda and Samuel White. Amanda, Samuel, allow me to introduce Stanley, my brother's boy."

Somehow I managed not to react to that announcement, but smiled, and shook their hands, and managed to look embarrassed when Kristina added that I "was a little shy," and Joey laughed and added "He may look like his mother, but takes after his dad in that respect."

The whole time I was trying to decide if these two had ever met Lestrade, and if the Inspector was even old enough to be my father. It occurred to me then that I had no idea how old Lestrade actually was, and that I really didn't know the man that well.

I wondered if anybody down at the Yard did.

I stayed quiet during dinner, aside from answering that Lestrade was doing well and gathering that these people _had_ met him before. It was with great relief that I all but fled into the library afterwards, where I was joined by Mercy.

**_Extract from The Times_**

Only two days ago one of Scotland Yard's own men overstepped the law. Inspector Stanley Hopkins murdered a man in cold blood in front of a room full of Constables, taking revenge for past injuries to his sister. Perhaps he was counting on those present to keep quiet, which brings about serious concerns as to the trustworthiness of London's law enforcement, or perhaps he was simply overwhelmed by having the man who had wronged his sister so close to being in his grasp. Whatever the reason, Hopkins acted, and by the time Inspector Roger Bradstreet arrived on the scene the man was dead, a knife buried in his chest.

In light of his crime, Hopkins has gone into hiding. Inspector Giles Lestrade has been put in charge of finding the missing Inspector-turned-murderer, but has so far been unsuccessful in his attempts to find Hopkins. One cannot help but wonder, however, if Lestrade is actually interested in finding the man.

A witness states that he actually saw Lestrade and Hopkins together the night of the murderer. He states that an intoxicated Lestrade, who was possibly unaware of Hopkins' crime at the time, was engaged in a rather friendly conversation with the other man. There has been some speculation as to the nature of the relationship between the two men, and whether their apparent friendship would give Lestrade cause to approach such a search with less than professional enthusiasm.

When faced with questions on whether his friendship with Hopkins would affect his job, Inspector Lestrade reacted with considerable discomfort before declaring that the law was the law, and it was his job to uphold it, no matter who was involved in breaking it. The sincerity of such a statement, however, is yet to be seen.

**_Roger Bradstreet_**

There was nothing else for it.

The man was probably busy, and hopefully Gregson and Lestrade had already enlisted him in this business with Hopkins, but if there were the slightest chance he might have some answers to this case, I would take it.

Holmes was pacing when I reached Baker Street, and Doctor Watson was cleaning up what looked to have been one of Holmes' desperate searches for misplaced files.

"Nothing of use." Holmes complained as I stopped in the doorway. "Absolutely nothing on this Lewis. I shall have to go to Scotland Yard."

"Lewis?" I asked. "What about him?"

Holmes scoffed. "He was murdered for a reason." He retorted. "Why I cannot yet say. I need more information."

Doctor Watson looked troubled. "Lestrade is still out searching for Hopkins, and I doubt Gregson is going to be keen to help you, Holmes."

Holmes looked slightly chagrined. "I need access to their files on the man!" He insisted.

I saw my chance. "I could get you access to Lewis' files." I offered. "I was actually going to see if I could figure out what he had to do with the gang we're after. Perhaps we could help each other."

Holmes brightened considerably. "Certainly!" He agreed. To Doctor Watson he added, "I have reason to believe that all this is related somehow anyway."

"All right, then." Without further delay, we set off for Scotland Yard.

**_Tobias Gregson_**

I scowled. It wasn't possible!

The knife that had been used to stab Lewis was gone.

And not just gone, not simply missing, or misplaced, but it was as if it had never existed! The reports from the witnesses mentioned it, but it was as if the thing had never made it to the station. As if the knife had been missing from the body when it arrived at the Yard.

It hadn't been present during the autopsy, and no one had noted it as evidence.

I swore and went looking for the Constable who had been on duty that night.

Something was definitely not right here, and I was going to find out what. Evidence didn't just disappear. Knives didn't just get up and leave the bodies of the people they had stabbed.

Someone had removed that knife, and I was going to find out who.

**_Giles Lestrade_**

"No, sir." I replied dutifully. I had not seen a paper today.

Superintendent Marshall practically threw one at me. I caught it, and opened it to the page he suggested.

My stomach sank as I read.

"Well?" Marshall demanded. "What do you have to say to _that_?"

I blinked. What was I _supposed_ to say to that? "I see I'm no longer on their good side." I ventured.

"You think?" Marshall snorted. "To hear them talk, you're in cahoots with the man and helped him go into hiding!"

I pushed that thought away. It made me slightly uncomfortable. "I am searching London for a man who does not want to be found." I pointed out.

"A man who doesn't want to be found, or a man you don't want to find?" Marshall demanded.

"It doesn't matter whether I want to find him or not." I countered. "My job is to find him."

"And it's a job you're failing miserably at, Lestrade." Marshall reminded me. "And every day that goes by that he isn't found, the worse it looks for us. It looks like we're protecting him!"

I fought back a sigh. "I am doing everything I can to find him, Superintendent." I assured the man. "But this _is_ London. There are a lot of places to hide."

"Just find him, Lestrade." Marshall growled. "And soon."

This time I did sigh. "I'll do my best."

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and the boys do not belong to me.


	5. Chapter 5

**_Stanley Hopkins_**

At Kristina's advice, and with her assurance that by now everyone in the area would know me as her nephew, Stanley Lestrade, I went out for some fresh air.

It was good to get out of the house, although part of me kept waiting for someone to point me out and start shouting _murderer! _

But nobody did, even though I was forced to stop and talk to a few people. Kristina was right; everyone who stopped to talk started with something akin to:

"So you're Kristina's brother's boy, are you?"

"Yes, sir." I would lie. "Stanley Lestrade."

"I can't say as I've met your father." Was the usual reply. "Seen him once, last time he came to visit her, but he didn't seem like a very personable fellow."

I would shrug. "Aunt Kristina was always the more outgoing of the two, or so I'm told."

"You must take after your mother. You look nothing like your father."

"That's what they say." Another shrug. "I can't say as I mind being taller than he is, though."

This usually got a laugh. "True enough, but the man's not just short, he's small."

"He's pretty tough in a fight, though." I would confide.

"Is that so?" This would be considered skeptically.

"He didn't get into Scotland Yard by being a pushover." I would point out.

"Well, I suppose that's right enough."

And I would usually manage to escape after a few more minutes of such banter, only to be captured by someone else a few feet down the street. People were curious.

I managed to get rid of one more curious neighbor and stepped down into the street.

Mercy snarled; he saw the cab coming before I did.

It was going way too fast, and bearing right down on me, far too close to the side of the road for it to be mere chance.

Something huge rammed into my legs, knocking me backwards, and huge teeth dug into my shirt and dragged me backwards.

Mercy released me, I struggled to my feet. Somehow I had missed being hit by the cab. I stared down at the dog-beast.

It had probably just saved my life, there.

**_Giles Lestrade_**

I made my way down the street, trying not to think. Yesterday had been another fruitless day, thankfully; Hopkins had not been found. I was beginning to doubt the man was in London at all.

I hoped he wasn't. I didn't really want to find him.

I heard the sound of footsteps behind me. Someone was running. "Inspector!"

I turned. "What is it?"

Constable Smith straightened himself up. "Hopkins' apartment, sir. There's a shadow moving in one of the rooms. You said if I saw anything to come to you."

I nodded. "Come on, then. We'll see who's there."

We approached the building carefully, and the Constable led me around back and pointed out the bedroom window.

The shades were drawn, but I could just make out the slightest of silhouettes against it. I signaled for Smith to follow me, quietly, and approached the back door.

Someone had picked the lock. I slowly turned the handle and opened the door. Smith was a second behind me as I stepped inside.

I really hoped it wasn't Hopkins.

We stole through the house and up the stairs; the place was in good repair, which left us with very little to worry about in the way of squeaky steps or floorboards.

I eased the bedroom door open and looked inside. I nearly breathed a sigh of relief.

It wasn't Hopkins.

But whoever he _was_, he wasn't supposed to be there either. I went for my revolver, and stepped inside. "Don't move." I said calmly.

The intruder spun about and swore as he caught sight of me. He looked about desperately; he was unarmed, an unfortunate development for him.

He had been searching the room. I wondered what he had been looking for. Cautiously, I took a step towards the man.

"Easy there." I said. "Hands above your head."

He panicked, and bolted for the window. I darted after him, a second too late. There was nothing I could do as he threw himself out the window.

I flinched as the man hit the ground and didn't get up. A second later Smith, who had headed outside as soon as the man had gone for the window, reached the still form. He knelt by the body, shook his head, and stood.

"He's dead!" He called up to me.

I frowned. Whoever he was, he had preferred death to being arrested. He was no common house burglar.

**_Roger Bradstreet_**

Five members of this gang arrested, all willing to tell everything, and not one of them so much as knew who Hopkins was.

I wondered if they were being too cooperative. I also wondered if this case had anything to do with what happened to Hopkins.

Holmes had quickly pieced together the final pieces, and we had gone after the gang. There had been a fight, but we had been prepared for that, and had managed to take all five men without loss of life or limb.

Why, then, did I not feel victorious?

Probably this business with Hopkins was getting to me. I liked the lad, I wanted him to be innocent, and I really did not believe the boy would kill someone, but the evidence was there, and talking to the men we had arrested offered no new connections that Hopkins, or Lewis, for that matter, might have had with the gang.

Was it possible that Hopkins _had_ done it?

**_Tobias Gregson_**

Constable Westmoreland was horrified. "Missing evidence!" He all but buried his head in his hands. "I'm ruined!"

I was instantly wary. "What happened?" I demanded.

Westmoreland flinched, and his shoulders slumped. "It must have been that weaselly looking fellow, Inspector." He confessed mournfully. He looked as if he were signing his own death sentence.

"What weaselly looking fellow?" I asked.

The Constable hesitated. "He said he just wanted a quick peek at the body." He said timidly.

"And you let him?" I demanded, furious. "You let him in there with a body that was allegedly murdered by an Inspector? What were you thinking?"

He flinched. "He offered me a five pound note for a quick look." He confessed.

And there was the problem.

I knew full well that Westmoreland had two very ill children at home, and that it was all he and his wife could do to keep food on the table and a roof over their heads, and that meanwhile they were getting farther and farther behind with the doctor's bills. Chances would have been that the man was harmless; sometimes people were just curious. Stressed and worried about his family, of course the Constable would have accepted the bribe, and hoped he wasn't caught.

He had chosen to confess, in light of how serious a mistake he had made, and it would cost him his job.

He could not afford to be without work.

I sighed. Then I glared at the man.

"I expect this not to happen again." I snapped. "And I expect you to keep a low profile and stay out of my sight; I don't want to have to look at you for at least a week." I turned on my heel and would have stormed off.

"Sir?" He stammered, not sure what was going on.

I swore. "Remember this, Westmoreland." I growled. "Second chances don't often happen in our line of work."

Some of the color returned to the poor man's face. "Yes, sir. Th-thank you, sir."

I shook my head and left him there. I had other things to worry about.

If that knife was missing, it was important.

It needed to be found.

**_John Watson_**

Holmes looked up from the files he was considering. "Watson!" He shouted.

I started. "What is it, Holmes?"

My friend groaned. "How could I have been so stupid?" He demanded.

"What?"

"The gang!" He all but shouted. "I've been so blind. Watson, those men _wanted_ to be caught! They were so eager to talk because they were _supposed_ to take the blame! The real gang is still out there!" He sprang to his feet. "Come on, Watson!" He was darting out the door. "Where the devil is Bradstreet?"

**_Roger Bradstreet_**

I tried to remain calm. "I sent him home because I knew Hopkins wasn't the type to run." I replied. That sounded weak, even to me.

Marshall's eyebrows went up. "And yet he ran!" He snapped. "Nobody here thought the boy would murder someone either, Bradstreet."

I didn't say a word. What could I really say?

"You let a murderer walk right past you and to his freedom. He got enough of a head start that Lestrade would probably have a hard time finding the lad even if he wanted to! And worse, thanks to the papers, the whole of London knows it! Bad enough it looks like Lestrade is close friends with the lad, now it looks like you were helping him escape. What on earth were you thinking? That was stupid, Bradstreet!"

Marshall was furious. I was in serious trouble.

"You're suspended until further notice." He snapped. "Without pay."

I managed not to flinch. "Yes, sir." I replied stiffly.

"Dismissed." Marshall snapped.

I turned and walked out of his office. Lestrade was standing there, and I realized I wasn't the only one in trouble. I only hoped Lestrade fared better than I had.

"Next." I muttered as I passed him. Lestrade didn't allow himself to react.

**_Giles Lestrade_**

I took my place in front of Marshall's desk. The Superintendent fixed me with a gaze that should probably have made me sweat.

"Were you aware that Bradstreet found Hopkins at the crime scene and sent him home?" He asked.

"Yes." I replied. There was no point in putting off the inevitable. I was in trouble.

"That's right, he sent Hopkins with a message to you that he couldn't meet you." I nodded slowly, waiting for the blow to fall. I didn't have long to wait. Marshall was up on his feet and glaring down at me. "Did it not occur to you that Bradstreet is the reason Hopkins is still free?" He demanded.

"The thought had crossed my mind." I admitted.

"And you didn't think that you should mention it?"

I hesitated. "No one could have predicted that Hopkins would run. It was an honest mistake, sir."

"Then you don't think Bradstreet was helping him escape?"

"Absolutely not." I said. The very idea was absurd. "I think Bradstreet made a mistake. He was as surprised as anyone to learn Hopkins had disappeared."

"Did you see the paper today?" Marshall wanted to know.

I nodded. "They seem to want to believe we're protecting Hopkins."

"Are we?" I met the other man's accusing gaze. "Don't you think it would have been nice to know that you and Bradstreet had dealings with the man the night he was murdered?"

"I didn't really think about it." I admitted.

"Well, you need to start thinking a little bit more, Inspector." Marshall snapped. "And you need to watch it. You're treading on some very thin ice here."

"Yes, sir." I said softly.

"Get out."

I retreated quickly, grateful to get out of there relatively whole.

I let a groan escape after I had closed the door behind me. Bradstreet _had_ made an honest mistake. One any of us would have made in his place.

_Suspended without pay_.

**_Tobias Gregson_**

I was heading home, finally, after a long, fruitless day. There was still no sign of the knife. Bradstreet had been thoroughly thrashed by the papers, for making a mistake that I would have made myself.

Hopkins was not the type to run.

Of course, he wasn't the type to murder someone either.

I considered stopping for a drink on my way home. It had been that sort of day.

"Pardon me, Inspector." I turned, and saw the flash of steel too late to do anything about it. I tried to turn and block it anyway, and gasped as I felt the steel blade plunge into my side.

I grabbed at my attacker, who seized me by the collar and began dragging me down the street. I tried to breathe, or shout, or fight my assailant off, but I was having enough trouble just thinking as hot liquid continued gushing from my side.

My legs collapsed on me, and I would have fallen had my attacker not been dragging me. I tried again to call out, but I couldn't catch my breath.

I dimly realized he was dragging me into the dark alley. When he threw me to the ground, I tried to get up, but didn't have the strength. I lay there in a growing pull of my own blood, trying to think, trying to breathe.

The world around me was growing darker. It was also beginning to spin.

I blacked out.

**_Elisabeth Lestrade_**

_Dear Sister,_

_Can you keep a secret? So can I._

_I don't know what is going on in London, or what your husband has been up to, but I wanted you to know that we are enjoying having my nephew here to visit. I only wish that you and my brother the Inspector could have come as well._

_He is a nice, well behaved young man, and I believe my brother's instincts on him are correct. He has told me about his problems at home, and of my brother's strange behavior; rest assured that we are taking good care of the boy, though I believe he will be grateful to be able to return home._

_Don't tell your husband I wrote. He doesn't need to know. He would worry that something must be wrong for me to write, and we certainly don't need that._

_Take care, dear sister, of both you and your husband,_

_Kristina_

I burned the letter after I had finished reading it. It certainly cleared up a few things.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and the boys do not belong to me.


	6. Chapter 6

**_Stanley Hopkins_**

I stared blearily into my cup. Something was wrong with my drink.

I felt myself slide forward in my chair and hit the floor. _What the-?_

Someone grabbed me by my shirt, and hauled me back up. I was grateful for all of two seconds before I realized the man was dragging me across the room and to the back.

I tried to flail, or shout, or something, but my body wasn't responding! I was captive, subject to the will of whoever was dragging me up into one of the rooms upstairs.

I swallowed. My throat was strangely dry. I tried to call out, but ended up coughing instead. My 'companion' released his hold on me, and I fell unceremoniously to the floor in a heap.

Why the devil couldn't I move? I licked my lips, and tried again to call out. That blasted dog was downstairs, after all.

He had a rope. I watched him for a few minutes, puzzled, before I realized what he was doing.

I swallowed again, desperately. I tried to stagger to my feet. I tried to lunge for the door. None of it had any effect.

He finished fastening the noose, and turned his attention back to me. He dragged me roughly to my feet, and proceeded to drag me across the room.

I was going to die if I didn't do something.

I tried to cry out, and was rewarded with a croak. It was not much of an improvement.

I was now swallowing rapidly, trying to get some moisture into my throat, as the man slipped the noose around my neck. I wondered if I could whistle. I had seen Joey call for the dog-beast by whistling just this morning.

I tried, and managed to make some noise. It didn't seem to have any effect. Out of sheer desperation I somehow forced out a shout that felt as it were being ripped from my throat.

Below, Mercy barked.

Seconds later the beast attacked the door, and made short work of it. Then he turned on the man that was trying to hang me.

He screamed as the dog jumped on him, and I could hear people running up the stairs as I realized I couldn't breathe and was running out of air.

They burst in; someone swore. In a second the barkeeper was cutting me down, while the others with him tried to get Mercy off my assailant.

I hit the ground hard. Two thoughts fitted through my mind before I blacked out. The first was that if these men had not found me now, this would have easily been mistaken for a suicide.

The second was that someone wanted me dead.

**_Giles Lestrade _**

It wasn't the first time I wished I weren't so slow.

I gazed around the papers in Hopkins' office. There had to be _something_ here.

It was no accident that someone had been in Hopkins' apartment. It was not chance that Hopkins had been set up. There was some connection between Hopkins and that gang, one that it was likely he was not aware of, and one that this gang was desperate no one figured out.

I was almost certain there was some connection. I just had to find it.

So here I was, in Hopkins' office, going through his papers and files, looking for who knew what. I only hoped that I would recognize it when I saw it.

I also hoped I found it soon.

**_Athelney Jones_**

I hated alleys. They were dark, dangerous, and an excellent place for leaving corpses. I always felt like someone was watching me out of them.

I had that feeling now. Unwillingly I stopped and peered into the dark alley, looking for someone, anyone, to assure me I wasn't imagining things.

At the same time I hoped there was nobody there.

I frowned, and squinted. I thought I saw-

There, on the ground, sticking out from a pile of trash. An arm. Someone was lying on the ground back there.

I sighed and stepped into the alley. Chances were it belonged to a corpse.

I approached warily, and shuddered as I recognized the dark liquid pooled around the body.

Blood.

I knelt carefully beside the body, and went to feel for a pulse. He wasn't dead yet; he managed to grab hold of my sleeve with a bloody hand. I saw the wound then. Someone had stabbed him.

"Jones." I froze as he whispered my name. I leaned in closer, trying to get a better look at the man's face. I swore as I recognized the man.

It was Gregson.

"I'll be right back." I told the man firmly, and removed his hand from my sleeve. I left him only long enough to send a message for Doctor Watson, and hoped the man would come quickly. Then I returned to the other Inspector's side.

"Jones-" Gregson gasped as I returned. He was trying to speak, but it was difficult for him. I wondered how the man was still alive. "The knife." He managed to get out.

I frowned. "What knife?" I demanded.

He was having trouble breathing. _Wonderful._ "It's gone." He managed to grunt. Then he passed out.

I growled. Doctor Watson had better hurry.

**_Roger Bradstreet_**

Lestrade slipped into the empty seat beside me and signaled for a drink. He'd been outside the office when I was suspended. He knew.

He didn't offer condolences. He didn't try to make me feel better. He didn't say a word.

I was grateful.

We didn't talk about work. We didn't talk about Hopkins. We didn't talk at all. We just sat there, and stared at our drinks.

Finally he turned to me. "We all would have done the same." He said at last. Then he picked up his drink, raised it in salute, and downed it.

I didn't manage the smile, but I did return the gesture.

We set our cups down, and Lestrade blinked.

Then he swore.

I managed to catch him before he hit the ground.

_What the-?_

He was completely limp, and I could see the confusion in his eyes as I went down with him and managed to prop him up against the bar.

"Lestrade." I said urgently. He tried to focus on me, but seemed to be having trouble even moving his head enough to meet my worried gaze. "Inspector. Can you hear me?"

His dark eyes glittered, and his lips moved, but that was all of the response I received. This was bad.

"Excuse me." Behind me, someone spoke. I turned to glare up at the two men that had approached.

"I'm kind of busy right now." I said shortly.

One of them laughed. "Not anymore. We'll take care of the Inspector now, don't you worry." I didn't like the looks of either of these two.

"No thanks." I said. "I've got it taken care of."

They didn't like that. "I think you misunderstood us. You can leave, now, or else."

I wasn't impressed.

"I think you need to move on, sirs. I don't want any trouble." I warned.

"Well, that's too bad." Said the one. "Cause now you've got plenty."

He lunged forward to grab my collar and pull me up. I punched him in the gut as I pulled myself to my feet. Then I turned and let the other have it in the jaw. Out of the corner of my eye the first man was recovering; I lashed out and kicked where I had previously hit him, and he doubled over. I shoved the second man into a table and several chairs, and picked up the stool I had been sitting on and smashed it across his companion's face.

He went down, and his friend was rather unsteady as he staggered to his feet. I turned my attention to Lestrade, who was watching with some alarm, but apparently still unable to move.

"Come on." I hauled the man up, and slung his arm across my shoulder. "Let's get you out of here."

He started coughing as we left the building, and I wondered what on earth had been in his drink. I had never seen anyone go down so fast.

"You all right?" I asked.

"Think so." He managed to croak.

"You want to go home, or to a doctor?" I asked, though I already knew the answer. Lestrade hated hospitals, and as far as I knew only tolerated one doctor.

"Home." He coughed again, and I started towards the man's home.

**_John Watson_**

"I don't like this." I said as I finished stitching up Gregson. "The knife was missing?"

"From the corpse of our friend Lewis." Holmes confirmed.

"Someone is trying to cover something up." I mused. "I want to see him."

"Lewis?" Jones asked. I nodded. He sighed. "Fine. Just don't go doing something that will make us look bad. We're having enough problems as it is."

If Jones was complaining to us, things were indeed bad at the Yard.

But then, Hopkins had been framed for murder, Bradstreet had been suspended, and Gregson had been knifed on his way home. There was no doubt that things were bad. I just hoped they didn't get any worse.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and the boys do not belong to me.


	7. Chapter 7

**_Stanley Hopkins_**

I groaned, and thought about sitting up in the bed. My stomach and my head both rebelled at the thought. I groaned again.

I felt ill.

I tried to remember what had happened yesterday.

I remembered something being wrong with my drink, and then-

Then I had collapsed, and had been completely unable to get my body to respond.

Someone had tried to kill me!

They had tried to make it look like a suicide. That stupid dog had come to my rescue again, just like with the cab-

Someone was out to get me.

I thought about sitting up again. Then I remembered that I had spent most of the previous night throwing up. Whatever had been in my drink, it had been some nasty business.

I forced my eyes to open. They didn't want to focus.

"Good, you're awake." I flinched; it felt like someone had taken a hammer to my skull. "How are you feeling?"

"Horrible." I managed. My mouth was dry, and tasted terrible. I slowly tried to sit up.

Gentle hands steadied me, and propped me up. "Easy now, you were sick half the night." A glass was pressed into my hands. I brought it to my parched lips and tasted it.

It was water.

I drank gratefully, and the glass was taken away when I had emptied it. I still couldn't seem to focus. "Thank you." I managed.

"You were unconscious when they brought you in." Kristina had lowered her voice. It still hurt. "Said someone had tried to kill you, and that the dog had found you just in time."

I didn't say anything. I was having trouble thinking.

"Wait a bit longer, to make sure you aren't going to be sick again, and I'll bring you some soup up." She offered, and began easing me back down in the bed.

"Thank you." I managed to say.

**_Athelney Jones_**

I barely glanced at the body. It had been decomposing in the river for quite some time.

Instead I looked around for the Inspector in charge. He was nowhere to be seen, and Constables were standing around looking lost and shocked and uncomfortable.

"Smith!" I called, and the Constable in question scurried over. "Who's in charge of this?" I demanded.

Smith swallowed nervously. "Inspector Lestrade, sir." He replied timidly.

"Where is he?" Smith hesitated. "Well?"

"Over there, sir." Smith pointed towards the corner. "I don't think he's feeling well."

"Oh?" I replied, and turned and headed for Lestrade's corner.

I stopped as the sound of retching reached my ears, and waited. A few minutes later the sounds ceased, and Lestrade shortly appeared, looking pale.

"Jones." He grunted, and swallowed before starting back towards the corpse. The wind changed as I moved to follow him, bringing the smell of the deceased to us.

Lestrade gagged, and looked positively ill. I was surprised by this; I had never known Lestrade to show such a weakness even in dealing with the worst of the job.

"You okay?" I asked.

He closed his eyes, and swallowed. Then he nodded feebly. "Fine." He managed.

Then he was darting back around the corner. I waited patiently for him to return. He looked terrible when he did.

I took a look back at the corpse. "You'll never get this over with at this rate." I said. "Get out of here. I'll take care of it."

"I can-"

"No you can't." I said. He would have argued, but was too busy trying to steady his breathing. "Go." I said, and shoved him in the opposite direction from the corpse.

"Thanks." He managed to say before he started gagging again.

**_Roger Bradstreet_**

I approached the man behind the bar. It was the same man from last night. Good.

"Hello." I said. "Had some excitement last night."

He was nervous. Little pig eyes darted back and forth. "I didn't know." He said immediately.

I stared at the man. "Didn't know what?" I asked.

He gulped. "I didn't know there would be trouble." He said quickly. "A fellow came up, said it was a joke. Said his name was Stanley Hopkins, that he worked with the Inspector. I swear I thought it was supposed to be some practical joke or something, Inspector."

I scowled. _Stanley Hopkins, huh? Clever._ "Can you describe the man?"

He shook his head. "I didn't get a good look at him, but he was probably shorter than you, and skinnier. Had a real harsh voice. That's all I know. Honest, I didn't know he was looking to do harm to the Inspector."

I sighed. "I'll give you some advice, Tommy." I told the man. "You're new, so I wouldn't expect you to know this yet, but you don't play practical jokes on Lestrade, or on any of the Inspectors at the Yard."

I left him with that bit of information, and set out with a vague description after a man who had plotted to have Lestrade killed.

**_John Watson_**

Lestrade led me into the back room. "Here." He said, gesturing. He remained by the door while I approached the body. "I take it Mr. Holmes was busy?"

"He's looking for the missing knife." I replied. Lestrade nodded. He had heard about Gregson.

I turned my attention to the corpse. He had indeed been stabbed in the chest, and I had no doubt that it had killed him.

I frowned. "Lestrade, what does this look like to you?"

The Inspector approached, and eyed the wound. All the color washed out of his face, and he shuddered. "Excuse me." He mumbled as he darted from the room.

I set aside the thought that I had never seen Lestrade get ill in his dealings with corpses before, and went back to examining the wound.

There was no doubt about it; the injury was self-inflicted. I left to join Lestrade and tell him of my discovery.

I found him crouched, leaning against the wall, heaving. I knelt beside him. "Inspector?" I asked, and examined the man.

He was very pale, and was drenched in sweat. I wondered if the Inspector were well. I reached forward to check his pulse and his temperature. Both were up, but not enough to warrant any major concern. To all appearances, he was just reacting badly to the corpse.

"I'm alright." He grunted, and pulled himself together. He stood, and absently smoothed the wrinkles in his clothing. "Did you find anything?"

"I certainly did." I replied. "I'm surprised no one noticed before, but I was looking at the angle of the injury, and I am convinced that the wound was self-inflicted."

"What, you mean the man stabbed _himself_?" Lestrade demanded. "But why on earth would he do such a thing?"

"I don't know." I said. "But there has to be more to this than just his past history with Hopkins."

**_Roger Bradstreet_**

I blinked, and rubbed my eyes. I had to have been seeing things. There was absolutely no way it was possible that I had seen what I had just seen. No bloody way.

The man was dead. Stabbed in the chest. Murdered.

I shook my head, but the conviction remained.

I _had_ seen what I had just seen, and what I had just seen was a dead man.

I had seen Lewis alive, well, and walking down the dark street.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and the boys do not belong to me.


	8. Chapter 8

**_Stanley Hopkins_**

"Someone's targeting me." I told Kristina bluntly. I didn't know how to put it any other way. "I don't want either of you caught in the cross-fire."

"You're going back to London." Joey surmised. I nodded.

"London is bigger; it'll be easier for me to hide there." My heart sank; I had come to like these two very much over the past couple of days.

"Will you be able to avoid the police _and_ whoever's after you?" Kristina asked.

"I hope so. Either way, I can't stay here. Yesterday was close." I sighed. I wasn't entirely sure what I thought I was doing. All I knew was I wasn't about to stay here and wait for someone to get rid of me.

The incident with the cab had been no accident. I was sure of that now.

I would have a better chance of avoiding whoever was trying to kill me in London, assuming the Yard didn't get to me first. I hoped I was up to avoiding _them_, but not entirely confident about my chances.

Kristina nodded as if she had made some sort of decision. "Take Mercy with you, at least. It'll ease my mind."

I nodded. The hulking creature had saved my life twice already. The thought that he would be with me was somewhat reassuring.

"And go see Elisabeth." She added.

"Who?" I asked, caught off guard.

"Elisabeth Lestrade." Kristina clarified. That was who I had thought she meant. "She knows you're here, and she'll be aware of what's going on in the Yard. She'll also have no problem with helping you and keeping her husband ignorant of it, if that's what needs to be done. If my brother sent you here, he thinks you're innocent, and Elisabeth will have caught on to that. Just keep clear of Giles, and you'll be fine."

I nodded. "Thank you." I said as I stood. "For everything."

Kristina smiled. "Come again sometime, Stanley. We like having you around."

**_Sherlock Holmes_**

I had found the knife.

It was currently plunged deep into the chest of a corpse.

I heard footsteps in the hall. Someone knocked on the door, then shoved it open. Bradstreet stopped, surprised to see me. Then the corpse on the floor attracted his notice.

"He's dead!" The man declared the obvious. But then that meant he knew the man.

"Who was he?" I asked.

Bradstreet was still staring at the corpse. "He paid someone to slip a drug into Lestrade's drink last night." He explained. Then his brow furrowed. "Is that the knife that-"

"That was used to kill Lewis, yes." I confirmed.

Bradstreet gulped. "I'll send a message down to the Yard." He said, and retreated, leaving me alone with the corpse.

**_John Watson_**

Holmes was already examining the room as I knelt by the body. Bradstreet and Lestrade were standing in the doorway, trying to stay out of my friend's way.

"You're looking better." Bradstreet commented absently.

"I feel worse." Came the retort. "I'm starting to wonder if you actually did me a favor by not letting them kill me."

I looked up. "Someone murdered this man." I said.

Lestrade looked puzzled. "So this one _wasn't_ a suicide." He said slowly, making sure he understood what I was saying.

Bradstreet looked alarm. "What's this about a suicide?" He asked.

"Lewis killed himself." I said. "This man did not. You can tell by the angle of the knife that someone else did it." Bradstreet and Lestrade came forward and eyed the body warily.

Lestrade looked as if he were going to be ill again. I was really starting to worry about him.

Bradstreet didn't even bat an eye as the other Inspector retreated. "Someone drugged him last night, tried to kill him." He explained easily.

I stared. "Someone tried to kill Lestrade?"

Bradstreet nodded. "Last night." He confirmed. "This was the man who gave the barkeeper the drugs."

"Can you describe the symptoms?" I asked, suddenly worried.

**_Tobias Gregson_**

I glared at the files I was reading. That's what I got for being injured! Lestrade had delegated the task of snooping through Hopkins' papers and files to me when he had been called away this morning.

At least I was able to do _something_, even if it was going through the enormous amount of papers pertaining to our Inspector-on–the-run.

I stopped as something caught my eye.

I read through the report quickly, just to make sure I was not mistaken. There was no doubt to be had.

There was a John Lewis, the man who had used Hopkins' sister as a hostage. But there was also another Lewis.

The murdered man had a brother!

"Inspector?" I looked up; a Constable was hovering nervously in the door.

"What is it?" I asked. He hesitated.

"The prisoners, sir." He finally said. "I think something's wrong with one of them."

I groaned. I was not supposed to be up, let alone dealing with messed up prisoners. "Is there someone else in who can deal with it?" I asked. The man shook his head.

"All right." I grumbled, and carefully got to my feet. "Lead the way."

I painfully followed the Constable down to where the gang members were being kept. One of them was huddled miserably in the floor, shaking and whimpering and gasping. The other men in the cell were watching him with concern. In the back of my mind I wondered who had been stupid enough to shove them all in the same cell together.

"All right, back away." I said as the Constable, Jackson, unlocked the cell door. The men parted, and took a quick look at Jackson as I stepped forward. "If anyone tries anything…" I didn't finish the threat.

Jackson gave me a rough shove and slammed the door behind me. A click in the lock made my blood run cold.

I turned to face the men I was trapped in the cell with, and noted that the one on the floor was apparently fine now.

I was an idiot. A complete idiot.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and the boys do not belong to me.


	9. Chapter 9

**_Stanley Hopkins_**

Mrs. Lestrade didn't look at all surprised to see me standing at her door. "Come in." She said. "You're just in time for tea. Hello, Mercy. Stay."

I followed her inside, and she took my hat and coat. "Upstairs, you lot!" She called, and I was surprised to hear a half-hearted complaint and then the sound of three sets of feet pattering up the stairs.

Lestrade's wife smiled and led me into the kitchen. "How much have you heard?" She asked as she offered me a cup of tea.

"Not much." I admitted. "Thank you."

She smiled and sat down with her own cup. "My husband is in charge of the search for you." She said calmly. I choked. I was doomed.

"Bradstreet's been suspended for sending you home." She continued. "Someone stole the murder weapon. Gregson went looking for it and got knifed for his trouble, the Doctor discovered that Lewis stabbed himself, and someone tried to drug and murder my husband last night."

I stared at the woman in front of me as she finished summarizing and took a sip of tea. She looked as calm and collected as if she were discussing the weather. I wondered if Lestrade sat and discussed his work with the woman. She seemed rather well informed.

"Oh." I managed. "Is that all?" I frowned as that last statement sank in. "Someone tried to drug and kill Lestrade?" I asked.

His wife nodded. "Last night. Bradstreet dragged him home; poor lout couldn't so much as stand on his own two feet."

"He was limp, then?" I asked. "Couldn't move?" She nodded. "Someone tried the same trick on me." I told her. "I spent the night ill afterwards."

"He did seem a bit off color this morning." Mrs. Lestrade commented.

"Someone's after him too, then." I realized. _Wait a second-_ "They're after anyone who's trying to help me."

The woman nodded briskly. "You need to find them, then. They already know you're innocent."

I stood. "Do you know where your husband is, Mrs. Lestrade?"

She shook her head. "No, but Mercy can find him. Come on." She headed for the front door, and snapped as she stepped outside. I was slightly surprised by the way that Mercy joined us and stood looking up at Mrs. Lestrade as if he were waiting for instructions from the woman.

Perhaps he was.

Mrs. Lestrade looked down intently at the huge dog. "Find Giles, Mercy. Seek."

The dog-creature sniffed, and took off down the street. Lestrade's wife smiled. "You'd better hurry, or you'll lose him."

I nodded and took off after the dog.

**_John Watson_**

I was still watching Lestrade as we left the building in which Holmes and Bradstreet had found the dead man. He had allowed me to look over him, albeit reluctantly, and I was satisfied that whatever he had been drugged with was not going to kill him, but the man still looked absolutely miserable, and I was almost certain the only reason he hadn't been ill again was that there was nothing left in his stomach.

Bradstreet and Holmes were trading their experiences leading up to the finding of the man and the knife in his chest, which allowed me to walk with Lestrade and keep an eye on him. Lestrade was ignoring me as he tried to focus on what Holmes and Bradstreet were saying.

I paused as I heard a loud howl. Lestrade flinched.

A massive beast slammed into the Inspector and threw him to the ground. He didn't try to struggle against the creature on top of him, but went completely still as the monster began nosing at his throat and face.

"Holmes!" I cried, and darted forward. My friend turned around, and Bradstreet followed suit, and darted forward to try to get the large animal off the Inspector.

"Don't!" Lestrade barked. We froze, uncertain. The Inspector did not stand a chance against this monster.

But Lestrade did not seem harmed. Tightly controlled terror glinted in his dark eyes as he lay there on his back, perfectly still, but he was certainly not injured.

"Sit!" Lestrade finally snapped, and miraculously the beast backed away from him and actually sat. Lestrade sat up, glaring at the thing, and growled.

The beast barked, wagged a huge tail, and looked ready to pounce again as Lestrade clambered to his feet. He offered a hand to the creature, and it sniffed and licked at the back of it. "Heel." He ordered, then began looking around.

He found what he was looking for. The man was running towards us and trying to keep out of the open. In a minute the lad had joined us, and we all backed into an alley.

"Sorry, Inspector." Hopkins gasped. "I didn't realize Mercy would be so happy to see you."

Lestrade ignored the remark. "We need to get you off the street." He said sharply.

"Shall we adjourn to Baker Street?" Holmes offered quickly. "It is only a few blocks away."

**_Roger Bradstreet_**

"I'm sorry." Hopkins said as we settled in the sitting room. It might almost have been a comical sight, three of us Inspectors lined up on Holmes' couch, but I wasn't in the mood.

I shrugged off Hopkins' apology. "What's with the dog?"

Hopkins started to answer, then cut himself off. He shrugged. "His name is Mercy."

"He's big." I pointed out.

Another shrug. "He saved my life. Twice. Someone's been trying to kill me."

"In what way?" Holmes was curious.

The first time I was nearly run over by a cab." Hopkins shuddered. "The second time someone drugged my drink. I collapsed, and suddenly found I couldn't move. Anyway, this fellow dragged me up off the floor and upstairs, and tried to hang me."

We were staring at the lad. He seemed to have recovered from the incident pretty well. "The dog came looking for me, went after my attacker; his scream brought people running. I don't know what they put in my drink to do that, but whatever it was, it made for an awful night." He turned to Lestrade. "I hear you had a similar experience."

Lestrade nodded. "Fortunately Bradstreet was there to save my skin." He didn't elaborate.

"But I don't understand why someone would have gone after you." Hopkins worried. "Or Gregson, for that matter."

The lad was well-informed. Lestrade considered. "Gregson was trying to find the murder weapon after it disappeared."

"Maybe he was getting too close to something." The Doctor suggested. "Lestrade, what were you doing before the attempt was made on your life?"

Lestrade considered. "I was going through Hopkins' files, looking for some connection between him and this gang." Hopkins looked stricken, and he added, "I think there's something there, Hopkins, something someone is afraid you'll remember or notice."

"You and Gregson both had someone worried then." Holmes mused. "But how would they have known…of course!"

"What?" Lestrade demanded.

"Someone has been keeping an eye on you and Gregson." Holmes declared.

"Who?" Lestrade asked irritably. "Just tell us, Mr. Holmes." He already knew we weren't just going to get a simple answer to this.

Holmes ignored him. "Has it been announced that Lewis actually killed himself yet?"

Lestrade tried not to snap. "Does it look like I've had time to do that yet?" He wanted to know.

Holmes grinned. "Then here is what we must do. Someone at the Yard is involved in this gang, and we are going to set a trap for them."

Hopkins groaned. "I don't think I'm going to like this." He commented.

He was right.

"Lestrade, you are going to arrest Hopkins for the murder of Lewis." Holmes informed the Inspector. "Our traitor in Scotland Yard will not be able to resist going after him once he is alone in a cell. When he moves, we shall have him!"

Lestrade considered this while that huge furry monster that Hopkins had brought with him tried to console the lad by licking his hand. He looked over at Hopkins, who sighed.

"All right." He agreed. "But stay close. I've already been nearly killed twice and am in no hurry to tempt fate a third time."

**_Giles Lestrade_**

Hopkins was quiet as I led him through the station, studiously avoiding looking at anyone in the Yard. People stared as we passed; of course they would.

I led him back to the cells and went to the door of one. I stopped; something wasn't right.

I looked around, and wondered what idiot had placed all of the arrested gang members in one cell together. They seemed to be having a fight of some sort amongst themselves. I turned away; I really didn't care if they beat each other up or not.

"Lestrade!" I whirled back around at the sound of Gregson's voice. I squinted.

"That was Gregson!" Hopkins shouted.

I had the door to the cell unlocked in a second and stepped inside with my gun drawn. "Out of the way." I ordered, and the men scattered.

Gregson had seen better days; I wondered how he was still on his feet. He was bleeding again, and had undoubtedly ripped out the stitches in his side. I darted across the cell and caught him as he fell. "What happened?"

"Jackson shoved me in here." Gregson snarled. "Said something was wrong with one of them. That little-"

"Get out of the cuffs, Hopkins." I snapped as I dragged Gregson out of there. "We know who it is."

"Go after him." Gregson snapped. Hopkins was locking the cell door behind us; it hadn't taken him long to get out of the darbies. I passed Gregson off to Hopkins and went to find Jackson.

Fifteen minutes later I was glaring at the man. He simply looked back at me, cuffed at the wrists. Calm, cool, collected.

He wasn't going to talk. Not to me.

I threw him in a cell and went to find Gregson and Hopkins.

Gregson was holding himself together. I think he too realized things were coming to a head, and was stubbornly refusing to pass out before we had caught the man.

"Not talking?" Gregson asked as he caught sight of my face. Hopkins was trying to control some of the bleeding in his side.

"Not a word." I grumbled. "Maybe Mr. Holmes could get something out of him." I suggested. "We need to get you taken care of anyway."

Hopkins looked up. "Back to Baker Street, then?" He asked.

I nodded.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys at the Yard do not belong to me.


	10. Chapter 10

**_Stanley Hopkins_**

I think Gregson was grateful that we took a cab. I am certain the driver did not appreciate either Gregson's injury or the huge dog that was now trailing after Lestrade instead of me.

It was almost amusing to watch the dog-beast, who came up past the man's waist, following close on his heel as happily as if it were out frolicking in the grass, while all the while Lestrade steadfastly ignored the thing.

He really didn't like Mercy. Kristina hadn't been kidding about that. He barely managed to suppress a shudder as the beast jumped up onto the seat beside him in the cab and rested its head on his lap and hand. He let Mercy be, though, except for the fact that he moved his hand to rest on top of the creature's head.

The cab stopped, and we dismounted. I helped Gregson down, and Lestrade actually waited for the dog to get out before he stepped down. He paid the cab driver, and we approached 221b Baker Street.

A shot rang out; a second later I lost my hold on Gregson as a cry forced its way past my lips. Something bit into my shoulder and spun me around, and everything went black.

**_Tobias Gregson_**

Lestrade steadied me then knelt by Hopkins' now still form. He was still looking for the shooter even as he checked Hopkins' for a pulse. He found it, and relaxed. Then he caught sight of the would-be murderer.

"Fetch!" He barked out a command, and to my surprise that huge beast that had been following him around tonight took off after the man.

Holmes, Doctor Watson, and Bradstreet had heard the gunshot and come running down. Lestrade caught sight of the doctor, nodded, and took off after the dog.

"I've got them." Watson assured Holmes and Bradstreet, and they too took off. I staggered, no longer able to ignore how light headed I was, and moved to lean against the wall of the building.

Watson was bent over Hopkins, examining the injury.

**_Giles Lestrade_**

I had just enough time to register that Mercy had stopped howling before I plunged into the empty building and found myself face to face with a pistol.

"Nice doggie you've got there." Someone jeered. I looked over; the man had bribed the dog with a bone of some sort, and had slipped a rope around its neck while the idiot chewed on its prize.

I looked back to the man with the gun, and gaped.

It was Lewis.

He grinned. "I see you've met my poor brother." He said cheerfully. "Poor fool really messed up, offering to tell the Yard everything in exchange for protection." He shook his head with false sorrow. "But we talked to him, and gave him a chance to redeem himself. He was a good man. He took that chance."

He frowned at me. "Your lot were getting too close to our operations anyways." I didn't reply. As disgusted as I was by his actions, as long as the man was going to stand there and explain everything, I wasn't about to argue with him. "But you wouldn't give up. You wouldn't believe that your boy had killed the man, and you were still close on our trail."

He shrugged. "So now we have to finish you off." He grinned. "All of you." He stepped back a few paces. "I don't want to get blood on my suit, you know." He commented. "Now, Inspector, you are going to die."

"I don't think so." Someone slammed into me as the gun went off; I felt the bullet graze my temple as we went down.

Mercy went wild; he hadn't actually considered me to be in danger up until now. He threw himself forward, dragging the hapless man at the other end of the rope with him, and set upon Lewis.

Bradstreet was there and diving into the fray. Sherlock-

Sherlock was scrambling up and dusting himself off. "Are you all right, Inspector?" He inquired.

My hand went to my head, but the bullet had merely grazed the skin. I was bleeding, but that was all. "I'm fine." I said, and we went to help Bradstreet clean up the rest of this gang.

"Sit!" I barked the command at the dog. Mercy whined, but obeyed. Lewis was in no condition to cause any more trouble. "Good boy." I patted the dog on the head.

Bradstreet was eyeing Lewis. "I'll go get the Doctor." Was all he said.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys at the Yard do not belong to me.


	11. Chapter 11

**_Epilogue_**

"You could have been killed." Lestrade snapped at Holmes. Holmes simply shrugged.

"And you would have been." He pointed out. "As it stands, you were still injured, while I escape unscathed."

"That's not the point, Mr. Holmes." Lestrade retorted.

"So Hopkins is cleared, then?" Gregson asked sleepily. He and the lad were both only half conscious from the painkillers Watson had given them.

Bradstreet nodded. "And the gang has been rounded up." He added. "And Lewis is in some serious trouble." He chuckled.

"And you're back on duty." Lestrade stopped trying to argue with Holmes for saving his life long enough to add to Bradstreet's announcements.

"And no one's dead." Bradstreet was delighted with that announcement. "Although we did manage to get three Inspectors injured."

"And nearly killed." Hopkins was feeling awake enough to put in. "We should get a raise."

Gregson snorted. "That'll be the day."

"It's a nice thought, though." Bradstreet conceded.

Lestrade scoffed. "They couldn't afford to keep us." He declared. He scowled at the huge monster of a dog that was trying to lick his hands again. "Sit." He snapped.

The dog sat, and peered at him mournfully for a bit before transferring his attention to Hopkins, who didn't seem to mind the beast's affections.

Watson was going through his notes on the case. "There are a few things that still puzzle me, though." He said.

"Oh?" Holmes looked up. "What things, Watson?"

Watson looked towards the dog. "Well, that, for one thing. Where on earth did that thing come from?"

Hopkins chose to pretend to be out of it rather than try to answer. He had realized by now that what had happened between him and Lestrade that night was not something he would be able to discuss with anyone.

Lestrade considered. "I think it's part wolf." He finally decided.

That was not what the Doctor meant. "But whose is it? Why was it following Hopkins around? And for that matter, where on earth did the lad disappear to? Why did he run?"

Lestrade shrugged with all the ease of someone who had had plenty of practice avoiding thinking about just those things. "I guess there are some things about this case we just weren't meant to know, Doctor." He said.

"But what are you going to do with that thing?" Watson persisted. "It can't stay in London."

"No," Lestrade agreed, "it cannot. Rest assured, Doctor, that I will be getting rid of it as soon as I possibly can."

Watson decided to give up, and refrained from asking just how the man planned on doing that. He wasn't sure he wanted to know anyway.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me.


End file.
